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It was safe to say that the Prince's Rhaegar's departure left Elia with a bevy of mixed feelings.

She was certainly happy to see the last of Jon Connington. The man had been a pain in the ass since the Water Gardens, and while Elia sympathized with his predicament, that pity had quickly evaporated into barely checked irritation. The man had abandoned Ashara to go look for his prince and had summarily gotten himself well and lost. Oberyn had to be sent to find him, and the Northerner had returned with fire practically spurting out of the many orifices of his body. His sudden fascination with anything Dornish had disappeared with his humor, and he had spent the remainder of his stay sulking by Rhaegar's side, refusing to acknowledge anyone else.

Connington was a child, Elia thought sourly. Brave and loyal he may be, but when smacked with anything not in line with his desires, he turned as petulant as Doran's daughter, Arianne. The toddler was a lovely child, and Elia was a proud aunt, but the fact that Connington, a grown man and a knight to boot, could be compared to a three-year old in the midst of her tantrums was not favorable to his reputation.

But as she watched the King's Landing retinue ride away in a billow of dust and black-red banners, Elia agreed that to judge the prince by his company would not do. She stood by her opinion that Targaryens could not be trusted; the seed of doubt had been laid in her long ago, and she was too wary a person to ever make peace with the abounding rumors.

Bt she resolved that alone, without regard to his lineage, Rhaegar was a respectful and kind man. He had quietly made clear that the marriage would proceed with or without her approval, but Elia had returned from Lannisport with that knowledge. However, Rhaegar had realized that a marriage to her did not guarantee him her obedience, and he did not ask that of her. He saw her thirst for independence, something she had been raised to demand, and he accepted that she was forced into this out of obligation and duty, not choice. He did not express love, and as far as Elia could tell, he did not ask it of her.

For all these things, she was grateful, and as long as he did not succumb to the Targaryen madness, and maybe even if he did, Elia felt that this was a man whom she could grow to be fond of. Perhaps she could never love him as a wife should love her husband, but sometimes friendship was more precious than lust.

Nevertheless, she could not help but see a glimpse of what Cersei and Connington saw in Rhaegar. There was a quiet, seductive allure about him. He was a mysterious man, and what woman- or man, for that matter- could resist mystery? He held his secrets close to him, and his sadness was his and his alone; he did not ask anyone else to share his burden. When she had seen him at Lannisport, Elia had supposed that his melancholy was because of the court turmoil, but upon closer inspection, she saw that the source of despair ran deeper. At the root of it all, Rhaegar was a sad man. But he carried that sadness with authority and grace and that had earned him her respect.

But that kiss...that had earned his something more: her curiosity.

The attraction came from the surprise. It had been unexpected and because of that, it was made all the more memorable. She had been kissed before, yes. By Arthur, her love. By Oberyn and Doran, her brothers. By Ashara, her friend. But this had been different. This was from a man from whom she did not expect anything more than a romp for the sake of a child.

And yet...

There had been something intoxicating in the slant of his chapped lips against her own, in the taste of Dornish spice on his skin, in the smell of smoke and ash and metal emanating from his body. It had lasted a second, maybe two, but it had been enough. The radiating heat from the fingertips that pressed into her skin had chilled her and warmed her and shocked her all at the same time. It was that shock that drove her away from their joined mouths- not the fear of being seen, but the shock that came with the lightning-fast feeling of falling, falling, falling into those lovely blue-violet eyes…

Perhaps that was one more thing Elia had to fear from Rhaegar Targaryen: that if she fell, she would not rise again.

The year ended with the Seven Kingdoms letting their hopes die with their breath and drawing them up again in preparation for a new year.

In King's Landing, the arrival of Cersei to court upset all the balances of power. The cub had turned into a lioness, and she shook the city with her roar. The court ladies whispered that even though Lady Cersei was a woman, she played the intrigues like a man in a tavern card game: with a bright smile and a hidden dagger. It was a shame, they whispered to one another and always out of her earshot, that her golden twin had been sent to squire at Crakehall, for he was sweet enough to balance the sourness of his sister.

In Dorne, Elia, Oberyn, and Doran saw their once indomitable mother fall prey frequent bouts of weakness that left her imprisoned in her room for days on end. Accustomed to Elia's condition, they would not have been alarmed had it not been for the blood that splattered from her mouth onto the cushions and silks of the divan. She was a strong woman, Lady Aida, and she was an even stronger ruler, but not even she could fight her own body for long.

And so, understandably, the ailing princess was eager to announce Prince Rhaegar's betrothal to her daughter, if only so that she may see the outrage on the old lion's face before she closed her eyes. As for the hardships that Elia may face at her new home- Princess Aida prayed she would be long dead in the ground before she had to witness such a thing.

Luckily for her, the princess' desire came to fruition quickly and surely with a letter from the Stormlands inviting the ruling family of Dorne to spectate at a tourney at Storm's End.

In the Stormlands, the somber events of the past year were quickly erased from memory with the ascension of the bombastic Robert Baratheon, son of the late Steffon Baratheon and his late wife, Cassana Estermont. The new Lord of Storm's End was a tall, handsome man with a voice that carried through the castle walls and into the streets to the nearest brothel or to the training yard, whichever yielded his fancy first.

But being the new Lord of the land did not prevent him from celebrating his new position as he did all of his other victories: with wine, whores, and more battles. And so came to be the tourney at Storm's End.

The Baratheon lord invited all of the nobles in the Seven Kingdoms, of course, but he cared more about the revelry than the splendor, and in the end, it was a fantastic show of battle prowess but not much else. Many of the attendees were forced to seek shelter in the shabby traveler's inns on the vestiges of the city rather than be granted rooms in the castle or in the nicer taverns close to Storm's End. While the womenfolk complained, most of the men remained quiet. Whatever the lodging conditions, Lord Baratheon could not be criticized on the account of pleasure or alcohol or fighting, for all were capital and plentiful.

Even Oberyn could not find fault with the tourney. Last Elia saw him, he was having his armor fitted in preparation for a joust, or at least trying to. He was being continually distracted by a maid with shining black hair who kept passing by his tent, often peeking into the open flap coquettishly before popping back out. Finally, Elia had grown tired of her giggles and his sly winks and left the tent with a huff.

Men, she thought irritably as she walked towards the stands, hoping to find Ashara waiting there for her so that she may place a few early wagers. As with Lannisport, her friend had made herself scarce upon the party's arrival. Elia knew there was a man- there could be no other reason for the girl's convenient disappearances- and that he was a foreigner, but whenever she attempted to ease Ashara into the vague topic of the opposite sex, the girl bolted from the conversation faster than a sand steed. Unless, of course, the men had any relation to Elia, in which case Ashara was practically a fountain of conversation.

But in her search for a friendly face, it was not Ashara that Elia finally found, but the visage of a golden-haired, cheeky-grinned Jaime Lannister.

"Elia!" the boy exclaimed, standing at outside the golden Lannister tent with a cocky stance. He was dressed in green robes that made him look much older than his age. Certainly, he flirted like an older man, pressing himself close into her embrace when she approached.

Elia laughed at his pointed lack of formality and returned the attitude with gusto by embracing him as tightly as he did her.

"Jaime! How are you? I must offer my congratulations; I heard you won your first tourney melee not too long ago."

"Quite well, thank you for asking. Yes, it was fun. Father was very proud. Of course, he didn't tell me that, but I like to pretend."

"You have to be careful, Jaime, or the King might appoint you to his service. He could use a sword like yours," she jested.

Jaime laughed, his white teeth on full display, and posed as if he was preparing for an attack.

"Do you think I would be able to hold off his enemies, my lady?"

Elia laughed at his antics, and replied, "Why, yes, Ser Jaime, I do believe you could. But only if the attacker was blind and one-handed."

They walked toward the stands together, and Elia marveled at growth she saw in him, a boy of almost thirteen. Last she had seen him, it was at Lannisport, and he was a good head shorter, but now, he was past her height by half a hand and bulkier as well. She remembered that her mother once wanted to betroth her to Jaime, but the thought repulsed her. The boy was too young, and in any case, he felt more like a friend, even a brother, than a viable marriage prospect.

"And how is your sister finding King's Landing?"

Jaime's cheer dimmed perceptibly, and he replied with a steely bite, "I believe she rather loves it there. Cersei adores finery and gossip and all that. Yes, I would say it suits her just fine."

Elia nodded, but sensing his frustraion, said quietly, "You are not pleased?"

Jaime let out an angry breath.

"No, I am not. Father wants her in King's Landing so that she may catch the prince's eye. Or at least, some lord's."

Elia nodded again. The prince. Her prince. Well, not hers exactly, but he was her future husband. It seemed that the Lannisters did not not give up the chase quite so easily.

"And your sister? What does she have to say about your father's plans?"

"She would say that it is none of your business, Princess Elia," interjected a cool voice.

Elia and Jaime turned abruptly to find the topic of their conversation standing behind them, looking resplendent in a sultry red gown. Like her brother, she had grown, but her growth was into that of a woman- all curves and silk. She was gazing coolly at Elia, and for a moment, the older woman felt cowed, but she quickly straightened her back and stared back, remembering who she was and whom she was addressing.

"Nonsense, Cersei. It's not as if we were discussing anything that wasn't common knowledge," Jaime scoffed, quickly becoming the new object of his sister's derision.

Sensing that the source of the twins' argument ran deeper than being caught exchanging trivial gossip, Elia excused herself under the pretense of finding her family in the stands. It was cowardice, but it was better than being caught up in the Lannister family feud.

"What say you to Lord Robert winning the entire tourney?"

Elia pondered the question, weighing the chances in her head. Robert Baratheon was undoubtedly a superb warrior, but she had noticed he seemed rather tipsy earlier that day, staggering about his tent with a goblet of wine in one hand and a woman's dress in the other.

She opened her mouth to reply, but seeing her friend's focus shift to something behind her, Elia turned around. To her surprise, a sullen Jon Connington stood behind them, arms crossed and dressed in court livery. He was not jousting, then.

"Ser Connington!" Elia exclaimed, rising to meet him. "To what do I owe the honor?"

Connington grunted a greeting and held out his hand.

"Prince Rhaegar requests that you grace him with your favor before he rides."

The sarcasm in his tone was not lost on her, but Elia nevertheless bowed her head graciously and pulled an orange ribbon from her hair.

When the man left, Elia plopped down and rubbed her nose tiredly.

"I do believe the prince kill me."

"What do you mean?" asked Ashara.

"If anyone sees the ribbon, well, he's practically put a target on my back, hasn't he? Cersei Lannister simply needs a bow and arrow now."

Ashara laughed.

"No, I believe she would have to kill the prince first. He wouldn't let any harm come to his bride-to-be, now would he?"

Elia shook her head. Suddenly, the weight of everything struck her again, and she simply wanted to go back to Dorne, to the Water Gardens, to her home. Curse the prince and his kindness and his favors and his kisses.

"No, I suppose he would not."

Rhaegar felt the horse sway from side to side and he pressed a gloved hand to its flank to reassure the steed. Meraxes had been his mount since he was a boy. Jon had mocked him for naming a stallion for a female dragon, but Meraxes had been the steed of Rhaenys, sister-wife of Aegon the Conqueror, and his own namesake. Names held power, and that name reassured him like no other.

Rhaegar heard the crowd cheer wildly for him as he took his lance from the squire. They always cheered for him, but Rhaegar did not understand why. He was a good jouster; he knew that. He had defeated both Oberyn and Arthur that day, although both victories were more due to luck than skill. Afterwards, Arthur had accepted his hand with a laugh, but Oberyn had gotten up from the sand without even a glance before he stormed away angrily. Even though both men had been favorites of the spectators, the support the crowd raised for them could not hold a candle to how they had screamed when he emerged victorious.

Yes, they loved him. But they did not even know him.

He saw Ser Barristan steady his own steed across the stretch of sand, and Rhaegar took in a slight breath. Jousting always made him nervous; it was unneeded violence that often left young men hopelessly injured, if not dead. Rhaegar was not a warrior, not really. He was a good one, certainly, but he took no pleasure in it. Like so many other things, he fought out of duty. He jousted out of duty. And glancing at the stands, he reminded himself that he also wed out of duty. Therefore, he would survive this out of duty as well.

The horn sounded, and Rhaegar kicked Meraxes into a gallop. He pointed his heavy lance, aimed, and felt Ser Barristan's weapon slam into his own. The shock of the force twisted his hand, fed into his arm, spread across his body, knocked him off of Meraxes, and sent him sprawling into the sand. Slowly, he staggered upright, his head ringing but his life thankfully very much intact. However, his hand tingled painfully inside his glove, and Rhaegar dreaded to see what it looked like. He slowly peeled the gauntlet off to see that the skin was swollen and pink.

Sprained, he thought grimly. The ladies will miss their chief harpist tonight.

Meraxes scampered about him nervously, but Ser Barristan, having jumped down from his own steed, held the horse's reins to keep him from bolting. Rhaegar smiled at the knight's proffered hand and accepted it gratefully with his uninjured limb.

He raised his other hand to acknowledge the cheers the crowd raised for him. He saw Elia in the stands, and he smiled gently at her. However, the smile slowly withered from his face as he took in the pallor of her face and saw the bright orange ribbon fluttering from his raised wrist.

Damn.

It was when the glimmering piece of fabric caught the crowd's eye that the cheers turned to exclamations and the exclamations slowly died to silence before the silence drowned under the whispers.

He could practically taste their thoughts on his lips.

"The prince has a woman…"

"He has…"

The tourney at Storm's End finished drunkenly. No one seemed to realize that it had ended, for even a week after the final feast, foreigners still staggered around the town like they expected the next joust to take place any minute.

It was not a particularly memorable event: a tournament at Storm's End, one of many that had taken place and would take place again.

Nevertheless, it would remain the topic of conversation for at least another month or two, for a very startling announcement had been made on the final night.

Taking the dias in the Great Hall of the castle, Rhaegar Targaryen had stood tall and proud and announced that in the place of his father, Aerys II Targaryen, he was to announce his betrothal as Prince of Dragonstone and Crown Prince to the Iron Throne to the Princess Elia Nymeros Martell of Dorne.

They would be wed, he said, by the next year.

And so, that was how Westeros came to meet its new princess, the sun who would marry the dragon.

Thanks for reading, everyone! Not the best chapter, I know, but I'm heading for vacation and rushed writing this. Yes, yes, you can all yell, "shame" at me now for my excellent procrastination. In any case, the vacation extends into next week, so I might not be able to update next week. If I do, it will be a late update on Saturday. But thanks for reading all the same, and please comment/favorite/follow and I'll see you for the next chapter! Expect some wedding bells!